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Harald
David Friedman

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright ©2006 by David D. Friedman

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

World is a common name for the whole of human civilization, specifically human experience, history, or the human condition in general

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com

ISBN-10: 1-4165-2056-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-2056-6

First printing, April 2006

Cover art by Kurt Miller
Map by Chris Porter

Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to
CJC
who does it better
Donald Engels
who taught me about logistics
And
Nicholas Taylor
A gentle man, our world dark by his loss

Prologue:Wolf, Cat and Lady

Aliana could see tents going down, pack mules being rounded up and loaded. In the yard before the hostel two men were saddling horses. Uphill, wardens with staves were gathering by the entry posts to the road that led up to the Northgate. The high pass was open.
She wriggled backwards, untied hammock and cover, kicked apart the circle of stones that had guarded her tiny fire. A few more minutes to unroll the mail hauberk, pull it on, repack, carry everything farther into the woods where her mare was tethered. Habit won out over hurry and sense; she led the horse a few hundred yards parallel to the forest edge before coming out of cover and mounting. By the time she reached the gateposts the other riders were waiting, behind them the pack trains beginning to form up.
One of the two men was wearing a black cloak with the royal wolf's head scarlet on the breast. Aliana noted graying hair and beard, the quality of the black horse, but still kept her distance, moving to keep the other man between her and the Wolf.
Lamellar coat, worn and dusty, bow one side the saddle, quiver the other, helmet off, eyes wide and alert in a young face under dark hair. A Northvales cataphract, headed home. The cat glanced at Aliana, gave a friendly nod, said nothing. Her tension—she had no doubt that if she had been carrying her lance the blade would have been shaking like a leaf—eased a little.
The senior warden lifted the crossbar, motioned the Wolf ahead. The other man looked at Aliana, hesitated a moment, then followed; his pack horse followed him. Aliana waited until the warden gave her an impatient glance then urged her horse forward through the gateposts and onto the upward leading path towards the forest fringe.
Once out of sight of watchers below she stopped, sat listening a moment, slid off her horse, uncased and strung her bow, took cover behind a tree and waited, unmoving, watching the path uphill of her. Only when the sound of voices warned that the first of the pack trains was near did she remount and follow the other riders. The path wound steadily upwards. As the day passed the trees became smaller, faded to brush. The ground dipped, then rose steadily. Beyond, perhaps a mile ahead, dark horse and rider, some distance behind him the other. Neither looked back.
By the time the light began to go she had let the gap open wider. She tethered her horse in a patch of grass well to the left of the path, spread bedding on the ground behind a low boulder on the other side, made a meal of biscuit, dried meat and dried fruit, and fell asleep to the noise of insects.
The second day, trail descending, forested vales between foothills and the main range. The sun set early behind peaks 車買取 to the west, the sky still bright. She reined the mare to a stop, one hand on her neck.
Woodsmoke. Ahead, in forest shadows, a red spark.
"Welcome to my fire, Lady."
Unlikely enemy. And if he was, she thought with a sudden shiver, she was dead already, sitting a horse in plain sight, bow unstrung and cased. She slid from the mare's back, led towards voice and fire. The cat was alone, sitting with his back to a tree. The strung bow in its saddle sheath rested against the tree to his left; his hands were empty.
Mixed with the smoke was the smell of cooking meat; as she came nearer she could see two sticks over the fire and a round pan balanced on rocks just above the coals. Moving slowly he picked up a flat stick, leaned over the fire, used the stick to transfer something from the pan to a wide leaf in his other hand and held it out to her—an oat cake, only slightly scorched. He passed her a small dish of salt. As she took it he reached in, took a little, sprinkled it over the cake, leaned back against the tree. She took a small bite—sweetness of oats, salt tang, safety.
The mare stopped searching out patches of grass, lifted her head, sniffed.
"She smells the creek, maybe my horses." He nodded in the direction the mare was looking. "Time you get back the rabbits